


A Note on Singing

by Kedreeva



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Cooking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Self Confidence Issues, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22576759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: “You know,” Aziraphale said quietly one afternoon, his tartan-sock-clad feet up on Crowley’s lounge, a flute of very good white in his hands, and the soft sound of music spilling from a speakerless sound system to fill the room, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you sing.”-----Or, Aziraphale hits a nerve one night, and has to deal with what comes after.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 80
Kudos: 762





	A Note on Singing

* * *

“You know,” Aziraphale said quietly one afternoon, his tartan-sock-clad feet up on Crowley’s lounge, a flute of very good white in his hands, and the soft sound of music spilling from a speakerless sound system to fill the room, “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you sing.”

Crowley glanced up from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, CDs lying in messy piles all around him. He’d been sorting them, or at least Aziraphale was pretty sure that was what he’d been doing with all the moving and piling and thoughtful noises he’d been making while looking at the covers. Crowley’s gaze dropped a little, and he turned back to the CDs.

“I don’t like to sing,” he groused, low, as if he didn’t want to be caught.

“Really?” Aziraphale said, surprised. He didn’t like the small flinch of Crowley’s shoulders, or the way he ducked his head just a fraction at the word. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine,” Crowley told him, waving him off. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s just, you have all this music...” Aziraphale pressed, stuck between wanting to explain himself and wanting an explanation. “And you like so much more of it, that I-”

“Just- drop it, angel,” Crowley said, a little too meanly. Though he immediately looked to regret it, he didn’t take the words back, which told Aziraphale whatever was going on, it was outside one of Crowley’s usual snits.

Aziraphale quieted and sipped his wine and watched Crowley stare at the same CD case for almost an entire minute before discarding it with a rough noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t speak when Crowley got to his feet, nor when he stormed out of the room. When a full ten minutes had passed with no sign that Crowley would return, Aziraphale finally set his wine down on the nearest flat surface, uncurled his legs, and waded carefully between the stacks of CDs to go after him.

Crowley hadn’t gone in the direction of the spotless kitchen and there had been no slamming door, so the bedroom and the bathroom were both out. The tile in the hall was cold against Aziraphale’s socked feet as he padded toward Crowley’s little green room. Sure enough, he found Crowley standing in the middle of it, a green mister dangling precariously from the tips of his fingers and his golden eyes fixed on the middle distance beside one of the large-leafed plants.

Cautiously, Aziraphale approached him and gently removed the mister from his trembling fingers. He set it aside on the three-legged bench near the doorway, and then came around to in front of Crowley where he could be seen. Crowley’s gaze didn’t shift, didn’t move toward him at all, but Aziraphale knew that Crowley was at least aware he was there.

Aziraphale was nothing if not patient, especially now that they had so much _time_ on their hands, so he settled in to just be there. Crowley was good at brooding. He was good at sulking and moping. He was excellent at disappearing for long stretches of time after confronted with something he didn’t like. But Aziraphale also knew that eventually, always, Crowley would come back. Aziraphale didn’t even need to press in order for Crowley to give; he simply needed to wait.

So he did.

Thankfully, the wait was short. An hour passed, and then two, and then three, and the afternoon swooped into evening before Crowley took the first breath Aziraphale had seen him take, and let it out slowly.

“I was one of the Seraphim,” he said quietly, though he might as well have screamed it for how the words broke Aziraphale’s heart.

“Oh, Crowley-” Aziraphale started, but Crowley shook his head, eyes shuttering.

“I used to Sing... for Her,” he continued haltingly. “And She… demons can’t, you know.” His eyes opened, flicking up to Aziraphale lightning-quick before snapping away again. Retreating. “When we were cast down, our connection to Grace was severed, and our wings were burned, and our… our Voices torn out. I c-…. I can’t, anymore. Sing.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to do. There was certainly nothing he could _say_ that would heal such a wound. For most angels, losing their Voice might have been a loss of power to some degree or another; certainly they lost the ability speak directly to Her directly. But Seraphim were _made_ to Sing. Losing that would have meant losing his entire _purpose_. Losing his soul, in a way. Aziraphale couldn’t begin to imagine how much that must have hurt.

Gently, he reached out one hand to Crowley’s cheek, and Crowley flinched at the contact. Aziraphale nearly snatched his hand back, but Crowley was faster, grabbing at his wrist to still him and draw him close. He pressed his cheek into Aziraphale’s soft palm before finally looking at him.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Crowley mumbled. “I just… can’t.”

“Not even the way humans can?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley made a gesture that vaguely resembled a shrug. “I guess,” he said. “But it’s not…”

“It’s not the same,” Aziraphale finished for him. “I cannot _begin_ to understand, but I… I appreciate you telling me. That wasn’t easy.”

Crowley rubbed his cheek against Aziraphale’s palm, eyes closing, before he let go, let Aziraphale smooth his hand over the nape of Crowley’s neck and pull him into a loose hug. The offer was enough. Crowley quickly clung to him, fingers clenching in the cloth at Aziraphale’s back, his face tucked into Aziraphale’s neck, hidden. Aziraphale didn’t comment, didn’t try to stop him, just held him silently until he stopped shaking.

Without moving to let go, Aziraphale rested his cheek against the nearest bit of Crowley’s head and said softly: “You said it’s not that you don’t want to. This may be silly of me to ask, but have you ever tried to do it the way humans do?”

For a while Crowley was quiet, and then his strung-taut muscles slumped into a parody of relaxation. “I… I used to sing to Warlock,” he admitted quietly. “I thought… if there was anything left in me, it might do for him what it… that it might give him some kind of power to fight back with. But it- it was just lullabies. Sung to a human.”

“Did you like it?” Aziraphale asked, even though he could guess the answer. Crowley had been trying to do what his job had been before the Fall- use his voice to bolster the power of the one he sang for.

“No,” Crowley said, head shaking a little against Aziraphale’s shoulder. Then: “Maybe. I don’t know. It wasn’t the same, but he asked, and I… How could I say no?”

“Did you want to say no?” Aziraphale asked.

“Sometimes,” Crowley admitted. His breath tickled across Aziraphale’s neck as he huffed. “It felt… like cheating.”

“You’re a demon.” Aziraphale chuckled and put just enough space between them that he could see Crowley’s eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to cheat a bit?”

“Not like this,” Crowley told him, so tightly it sobered Aziraphale once more. “We cheat humans, we cheat work… we don’t get to cheat our punishment from Her.”

Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face for some sign that he believed anything less than exactly what he had said, but found nothing. Gently, he raised his hands to cup Crowley’s face in both hands, thumbs on his cheekbones, and said very firmly: “She may have taken your Voice, but she wouldn’t have given you a _voice_ if she didn’t expect you use it. I’m not saying you _have_ to use it, but Crowley… you _can_. And if it makes you happy, you _should_.”

Crowley pulled his face out of Aziraphale’s grasp somewhat crankily, and when he spoke his voice carried the dour sort of note it did when he didn’t want to admit Aziraphale had a point. “’m a _demon_ ,” he said as he took a step back. “I’m not supposed to be _happy_.”

“It think it’s a bit late for both of those, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked, a fond smile stealing onto his lips. “Come on, now. Let’s do stop sulking and get the rest of your erm… _collection_ out there cleaned up, and you can take me to dinner.”

Crowley’s expression softened considerably at the easy out of a difficult conversation, and followed Aziraphale back to the room where they started. Aziraphale actually knelt on the floor beside him for a time, passing him CDs and accepting the ones passed to him in return. At some point identified by no criteria Aziraphale could discern, Crowley decided that the task was Finished, and replaced all of the items to the proper place with a quick snap.

They did not, as Aziraphale had hoped, go to dinner. They did, to Aziraphale’s delight, stay in while Crowley cooked dinner instead. He had obviously meant to from the start, or his fridge had known he would try, as it held all the necessary ingredients for a truly exquisite chicken marsala that set the entire apartment smelling divine.

And if, while fondly watching over him, Aziraphale caught Crowley humming hesitantly to the garlic as he chopped, he didn’t say a single word about it.


End file.
